Took a Wrong Turn at Normal
by RenaRoo
Summary: Simmons was just fine with Grif dating other people. Just fine. No problem at all.


swedishjazz prompted: Grimmons prompt: they start seeing other people on Chorus/on Earth, because they always thought that they were sleeping together only because there were no other options to let off steam; but then, as they've had a chance to date around, they realize everyone comes up lacking, and they miss each other. And after solid 14 years of having sex they get the "shit I love him" epiphany, and stuff feels new and better now that each of them knows they're being deliberately chosen over others.

I had an absolute BLAST writing this! Grimmons and Docnut are ships I love dearly but rarely get prompts for so I can't thank you enough for sending this into me!

Red vs Blue and related properties © Rooster Teeth  
story © RenaRoo

 **Took a Wrong Turn at Normal**

Normal people didn't have to worry about being smacked in the face affectionately with porn magazines at all hours of the day. Simmons recalled that he could have once quantified that as absolute fact, mostly because he, himself, was once a normal person.

Or the closest that he could pretend to be one.

The point of the matter was, there was a time in his life where Simmons wasn't at risk of being smacked in the face with a suspiciously crinkled porn magazine by someone who meant it in a completely affable way.

At least, it was as close to _affable_ as Dexter Grif ever got.

"Seriously?" Simmons asked, grabbing the magazine as it threatened to slip off his face. "They invented the internet a few centuries ago."

"Shut up, and give it back after you finish finding all the doodled on goatees and devil horns I made," Grif replied, already turning to continue on with his day.

"What's the going rate?" Simmons asked, glancing already through the mess that was thrown on his face. "Ten bucks if someone you drew on is still attractive?"

"No, it's twenty," Grif answered, hovering by the door. "I can't keep it at ten, you still haven't paid the _first_ time. And I stopped trying with Donut forever ago. Pretty sure he's cheating." His eyes squinted suspiciously as he tilted his head back. "Maybe _you're_ cheating."

"You could always go to Sarge," Simmons deadpanned, earning a shiver from both of them. Simmons _immediately_ regretted his attempt at humor – the mental images would haunt him for years.

"Thanks for that," Grif snarked, continuing out the door. "I'm stealing your hair gel for a bit, by the by."

Simmons tilted his head curiously. "What? Why? Going somewhere? I was kind of hoping we'd do something… together, you know? There's a marathon on for _Mystery Science Theater_ and I thought you'd like to stay over for it."

Even without a reaction from Grif, Simmons was fully aware that the words had come out of his mouth in some unholy gibberish, running together and peaking on syllables that probably didn't deserve the emphasis.

And, really, he wasn't even sure why they had gotten to be the jumbled mess that they were. Not really.

Nothing about the situation had really called for it.

It was such a relief, then, when Grif just turned around casually and arched a brow at Simmons. But he never made fun of the hypertensive mumble. Never once – one of the few things that he didn't joke about with Simmons.

"Just got a date," Grif answered. Then he pressed his lips to a thin line, putting his hands on his hips. "Didn't know about the marathon, though… _damn._ I really don't want to miss that."

"A date…" Simmons repeated. His voice drifted off the words, a pang of something in his chest at them. But he quickly recovered. It was nothing. "With who?"

"Don't really know him. Got asked out when I was out at lunch with Donut," Grif said waving his hand. "You know how it's been since we got back. Assholes everywhere are interested in war heroes. I have to beat them off Kai with sticks. _Literally._ Bastards."

"That's great," Simmons replied.

Grif's eyes locked with Simmons' for a moment – a moment that was a bit too honest. A bit too obvious in their search for approval. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Simmons said. "I hope it goes great."

"Yeah. Me too. I guess," Grif replied.

There was an awkward pause before Grif let out a relieved sigh and waved Simmons off. "Anyway, have fun with the magazine. I expect some money when I get back."

"Yeah, don't count on it," Simmons trailed off, watching the door long after Grif had already left through it.

He wasn't sure why he was annoyed all of the sudden – if it even really _was_ annoyance that he was feeling – or why he could no longer remember what he had been doing before Grif interrupted his afternoon.

Grif had a date. And he really _did_ hope it went well. After all, as unaccustomed to giving _feelings_ words to describe them as they were, Grif really _was_ the best friend he had ever had – and had remained that status for all of the past fourteen long years. And he _hadn't_ grown apart even after they returned to Earth and settled for what was shaping up to be a long life outside of the military.

Simmons should have been elated to see his friend dating, being happy, living life.

Best friends did _not_ get angry and pout and waste time wondering what they were going to do with themselves if their friend wasn't going to be around.

Unable to remember what he had been doing without Grif, Simmons angrily grabbed the magazine and headed off for his room.

* * *

While Simmons would never make the argument that things started off _innocently,_ they had been pretty simple at the start of it all.

"It's like a mutual thing," Grif had proposed. "I mean, what else are a bunch of guys going to do in the army? _Not_ have sex with things?"

Then again, Simmons did have a tendency to edit history however his brain saw fit.

"I hope by _things_ you mean _people_ and not, like, _objects,"_ he had countered nervously, looking around the barracks.

"Depends on the mood," Grif deadpanned. "So what do you say, Simmons? Fuck buddies or not? C'mon. _Everyone's_ doing it."

Simmons also never _quite_ learned how to deal with peer pressure.

At least it was a handshake he did not later regret.

Things weren't _great_ at the start of it all – and to be honest, they were more frequent in the times they weren't buddy-buddy outside of the arrangement. It was serviceable, and like Grif had said in his offer, they were _mutual._

There was a sort of complacency and comfort to be taken in the complete lack of judgment either in proposing a good, clean fuck and in being able to turn one down when personal things got in the way.

At some point it shifted, though. Maybe practice made perfect, maybe his standards lowered, Simmons didn't know, but he did know what at some point in Blood Gulch there went from _decent_ fucking to consistently _good_ fucking with the occasional _great_ fucking. And judging by how good Simmons was at reading Grif, the feeling was mutual.

But then another shift happened.

Sometimes, when everything on the table was set for an average ravaging, they would trail off halfway and end up doing something different.

And for some reason it wasn't irritating or soul crushing when Grif rubbed his thigh then mentioned, "Hey, so I was thinking, if _Next Gen_ ever had an encounter with _Battlestar_ …"

It was honestly kind of elating.

It didn't take all _that_ long in the grand scheme of things for conversation to become the main thrust of their interactions as opposed to _thrusting_.

There just also happened to be thrusting when the fancy struck them.

And in a way there was something strangely perfect in it all, something that probably would have remained as it was until they returned to Earth as war heroes, veterans with benefits, and just a few months into reestablishing what _living_ felt like as opposed to _fighting,_ Simmons got a proposition of a different kind entirely.

And to break it to Grif, he went the not so subtle route.

Though, at least _part_ of the problem was in the fact that he was trying to think of a way to tell Grif about it all while he was warming up food in the kitchen, and the other man greeted him by grabbing his dick.

"Someone asked me on a date!" Simmons blurted out, high pitched enough to drown out the sound of the microwave finishing up its business.

Grif had looked at him like he had grown a third eye. "What?"

"I just… let's not do that," Simmons explained, voice still strained. "Just… this girl – _woman._ I got asked on a date. And I… said yes."

For a moment, Grif just tilted his head, like the news wasn't really making sense. Which, given his delivery, Simmons was willing to believe that truly was the case. "You said yes?"

"Yeah," Simmons said, throat tight. "So… maybe a new rule is… we shouldn't fool around when we're… y'know… dating."

"Other people," Grif clarified.

They stood awkwardly in their kitchen for a moment before Simmons coughed into his fist.

Simmons wasn't really expecting where it would go from there, what _could_ happen from that point, but he _really_ wasn't expecting for Grif to nod.

"Yeah, totally makes sense. Good rule," Grif said, voice strangely tenor. "No fucking around when either of us is dating."

"Oh," Simmons replied, voice just as odd, even to his own ears. "Yeah. I mean. It makes sense. We're just friends."

"Sure thing," Grif replied. "Food's cold again," he then said before leaving the room.

Blinking a few times, Simmons didn't know what to think. But when he glanced back to the microwave and found his food was, indeed cold, he cursed and threw the whole pan away.

That woman didn't even make it to a second date. But they had the rule all of the sudden.

It _changed_ things.

* * *

Simmons was flat on his back in his room, realizing for maybe the hundredth time since returning to Earth, that sharing a wall with his roommate and best friend was obscene and should be either excuse enough for him to move out or to go out for the rest of the night and avoid the awkward.

Grif hadn't even been gone two hours and Simmons had already furiously masturbated to absolutely no avail and no relief.

And it _wasn't_ because the drawings on the porn magazine had been all that distracting. They never had been.

Laying in his room, staring at the ceiling, Simmons – an adult man and a decorated war hero – realized something that probably would have taken a thirteen-year-old ten minutes to realize. _Tops._

He wasn't interested in dating or porn magazines or _anything._

Richard Simmons, Hero of Chorus, Captain of Red Squadron, was really only interested in his best friend and longtime fuckbuddy. And the mere _thought_ of him being on a date with anyone else had dried up his libido with ugly, infinite jealousy.

"Oh my god," Simmons moaned, dramatically throwing his arm over his face. "I'm so fucked."

Actually, he wasn't.

That was the problem.

* * *

There was a certain kind of misery that Simmons was accustomed to. The kind where he made junk food he wasn't interested in eating, had enough of it piled up for two people, and then sat on the couch fully prepared to eat it all himself while watching a marathon that he knew, logically, he _should_ have enjoyed, but he was going to hate every miserable moment of it.

The blanket thrown over his head was just for good measure.

He peeked out from the blanket, hand reaching for the buffalo wings that were probably going to be disgustingly inedible, when he heard the door to the garage open.

Completely at a loss, Simmons stared at the entrance to the kitchen and waited for the tell-tale signs of his roommate coming in from a date with said date and ready to tell what a fantastic time they were having.

His heart was beating so fast in his chest that Simmons thought, hysterically, he was going to have to call Sarge in for a tune up. It shouldn't have been beating that fast – but it was. And it was because of _Grif_ of all people.

But there was only one set of footsteps, and while he was definitely confused by the fact, Simmons was also elated.

Grif appeared in the doorframe and pointed with both hands toward the buffet of garbage laid out in front of Simmons. "How'd you know I was going to be coming back from a miserable time? Do you have cameras on me?"

"No," Simmons said a little _too_ quickly, earning a look of suspicion and contempt from Grif. "I don't but I've got…" Simmons sighed heavily and rubbed his face. "I don't have a clever comeback. I was misery-eating."

"What? Without me? Bastard," Grif said lightly, coming over to the couch and plopping down beside Simmons. "How many movies did I miss? Any classics? Is it on the reboot or…?"

Staring at Grif, for the first time since Simmons first met him in training, Simmons felt nauseous and anxious and a little bit like he was about to fall off a training bridge.

It was more than a little overwhelming.

"You really _did_ just make all this food for yourself," Grif joked, reaching for the very handful of wings that Simmons never fully managed to grab for himself. "There's no way you would've made this little food if you thought I was going to be back."

Simmons found himself just staring at Grif, wordless and more than a bit in shock, when it occurs to him that his awkward is beginning to be noticed. He panicked again.

"What went wrong?" Simmons blurted out, earning another cautionary glance from Grif. _Fuck._ "I meant with your date." _FUCK._ "I-I don't mean to imply that… What I mean is…" He blinked, wondering if something had leeched all the intelligence from him when he wasn't looking. Then he settled his gaze back on Grif. "H-how are things?"

Grif sucked on his thumb and Simmons found himself more uncomfortable with _that_ than his own word vomit.

More than Simmons' chest was growing tight.

"Wow, _really?"_ Grif finally asked after cleaning his fingers off. "You'll have to be a bit more crafty if you're just wanting juicy gossip about what the fuck went wrong tonight. I'm onto you and Donut and your–"

"This has nothing to do with Donut, just you," Simmons corrected before the accusations could go further. "I'm just… I'm interested in… y'know. You. I want to make sure you're okay. Because I care. About you. My friend. Because that's… I care."

 _FUUUUCCCCKKKK._

If – and it was a _big_ "if" – Grif hadn't been suspicious of Simmons' behavior before, there was probably some curiosity about him after that.

"Just didn't connect," Grif replied. "Guy hadn't seen _Star Wars."_

For another long pause, Simmons wasn't sure what was happening. But then it hit him – Grif was moving on. They were just _talking._ It was going to just be another night and he could _definitely_ deal with that – certain tightnesses be damned.

"You're kidding!" Simmons settled on as he leaned back into the couch. The blanket wrapped around his shoulders and over the top of his head tugged him back at an awkward angle and he wrestled with it for a few seconds to Grif's amusement.

"Yeah, and I wasn't feeling up to having another date that went nowhere so I left," Grif continued. He then poked Simmons. "Do you owe me any money on my magazines?"

"Not a cent," Simmons replied comfortably.

"Pfft, someday I'll believe you when you say that," Grif replied, turning his attention back on the screen before them. "Holy fuck, is that _POD People?_ It's my favorite!"

Grif became easily absorbed in watching the show, which should have been a good thing because it meant nothing Simmons blurted out was bad enough to truly grab his attention.

But there was something intrinsically wrong with the fact that he didn't have Grif's attention at that moment, too.

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Simmons attempted – somewhat desperately – to hold back any further embarrassment.

He _really_ did. Because he had _really_ been looking forward to having this marathon, huddled on the couch, making dumb jokes in a poor attempt at keeping up with the _MST3K_ crew.

 _That_ was what he had really wanted.

Except it wasn't anymore.

"H-hey," Simmons coughed out.

"What?" Grif demanded.

"Need to… uh, blow off some steam or something?" Simmons asked. "I mean… you're not dating anymore so…"

A long, annoyed sigh came from Grif and he reached over Simmons, grabbed the remote, and turned off the entertainment system. He then turned on the couch enough to glare directly into Simmons' eyes and ask,

"Simmons, what the hell is wrong with you tonight?"

Nervously tapping his fingers together, Simmons tried to laugh it off. "I'm taking that as a _no_ then–"

"Dude, _answer_ me already!" Grif cried out. "What _gives?"_

If any more heat came to Simmons's face he would've been able to cook an egg on it.

"I don't know what you mean–"

Throwing up his hands dramatically, Grif groaned, "Oh my _god._ Yes. You do. Spill it! I'm not going to be able to watch anything with you acting like this, it's driving me nuts. So just. _Spill._ Please. Seriously. I just want to get on with the night."

Simmons' mouth worked itself in strange and abnormal ways that he wasn't convinced were completely under his control. Especially considering the strange noises that escaped him.

Sighing, Grif rubbed at his face, apparently debating giving up on his pursuit of the truth.

"I miss you. When you're dating," Simmons finally got out. "Like… I miss you a _lot_ when you're dating. I think it kind of… effects me. When you're dating. A lot."

Grif then looked at him like he was speaking in foreign tongues. "We live in the same house. What're you talking about – _missing me?_ Where do I go?"

"I miss _us…_ doing stuff. Together," Simmons floundered again.

"What the fuck is _this_ then?" Grif cried out.

"Not friend stuff!" Simmons snapped.

"Dude, get yourself a sex toy, I don't give a damn," Grif snorted. "I won't chip in, but I might borrow it–"

"I don't miss the sex part of it either!" Simmons growled, even if he knew full well that that part didn't _hurt._ It helped quite a lot actually. "I just miss being _Grif and Simmons_ when we didn't worry about the other one dating so it was just… us. Whenever we wanted. It was… I liked it. It was us."

They lapsed into silence, staring at each other on the couch. Grif settled back, further away from Simmons, and glared.

"I don't understand," Grif finally said.

"Really?" Simmons asked, a little deflated at the statement. "Because I've gotta say, that's probably as clear as I can get. _That_ was a struggle to say on its own–"

"Goddammit! I don't understand because _you_ were the one who came up with the rule!" Grif snapped, pointing accusingly at Simmons. "You're the one who didn't want to fuck around when we were dating other people!"

"Of course I did! It's _sensible!"_ Simmons argued.

"It meant you _wanted_ to date other people!" Grif yelled.

And then, _right_ then, it all came together.

 _Oh._

Simmons stared back at Grif quietly. "I was wrong," he finally said back. "Because I don't. I _don't_ want to date other people. All I think about, dating them, is _how long am I going to endure this until I can hang out with Grif again."_

Grif looked away, fuming. "You fucked up a good thing," he informed Simmons. "I mean it, Simmons. We had a… I don't know. We had it, we didn't have to talk about it. And for fourteen years it was just that. And we were us. And it was fine. But you made the rule and started dating and well, _fuck,_ I wasn't going to wait until I was the one getting kicked out of the house for being a third wheel."

Silence took over again, proving to be a rather cruel mistress.

"What do we do with this?" Simmons finally asked.

"I don't know," Grif replied. "I hear makeup sex is great, though." He glanced toward Simmons. "Though, I'd _really_ like to watch this marathon first and complain about my bastard of a date first. I feel like I deserve it. And you owe me since I would've never been on that date to begin with if it wasn't for you and the whole fucking everything up thing."

Despite himself, Simmons cracked a smile. "That seems fair," he said reaching toward the junk food and giving the plate as an offering. "Hadn't seen _Star Wars?_ Like… _really?"_

 _"I know!"_ Grif laughed, grabbing some food. "Awful. I have never ran out of things to talk about with someone like that before. It was impressive. It was _nearly_ your levels of awkward."

Simmons sunk back into the grove, laughing and complaining and eating with Grif. Just _being_ with Grif. And it was the most natural and wonderful thing in the world.

But it didn't end there either. Because as cheesy as the movie was, as much salt as got thrown around in their venting, it was different from all the times before because of how it all ended with a plate on the floor and Simmons wrapped around Grif and vice versa.

It was far from normal, but, hell, so were they.


End file.
